Never Have I Ever
by latessitrice
Summary: Darcy hates drinking games. They always make her feel inadequate.
1. Chapter 1

**Angsty smut ahoy!**

 **Never Have I Ever**

"Never have I ever…fucked somebody with a strap-on."

Of course it's Clint's suggestion. Darcy glances around the group curled up on the sofas, expecting everyone's beers to remain firmly on the table. Instead, Natasha raises her bottle to her mouth with a coolly raised eyebrow.

Maria follows suit.

"Holy fuck," Clint whispers, and everyone bursts into giggles. The two women exchange a high five.

"Wait, I have a question," Tony butts in, his mouth only just able to keep up with his thoughts. "Does this mean you each own a strap-on? Who was the 'somebody'? Male or female? Both?"

Nat interrupts the barrage of questions. "Wait your turn."

"Was it each other?" he persists.

"Alright, you've forfeited your next go," Maria decides, and ignores Tony's protests. "Jane?"

Jane chews at her lip thoughtfully. They've already covered the basics: giving oral sex, threesomes, anal, doing it al fresco—and the strap-on suggestion was the beginning of scraping the barrel. Darcy's taken relatively few drinks, learned that Vision and Wanda's sex life is way kinkier than she needed to know, and even the good captain has outpaced her.

 _"What? I toured with showgirls for months. They're relentless!"_

"Uh…" Jane muses. "I have never received oral sex?" Everyone grumbles and takes a sip. Well, everyone except Darcy.

They all turn to stare at her.

"Did you not hear her, Darce?" Nat asks.

"No, I heard," she says, fiddling with the label on her bottle, and pretending not to notice the incredulous looks they're all exchanging. This is why she hates games like this: people get so judgey about stuff. She's only here to make sure Jane doesn't wander off and attempt drunk!Science.

Oh, and because she was meant to be hanging out with Bucky tonight, before team drinking games made their way onto the agenda. Bucky, who isn't even affected by alcohol but went along with the games. Now, when she glances up at him, his brow is furrowed, and he's staring at her very intently. But Bucky's expressions are always inscrutable to her, so she chalks it up to the same disbelief as anyone else.

"Are you saying no one's ever gone down on you?" Jane asks with something faintly resembling horror. Darcy tears her gaze away from Bucky, feeling her cheeks heat up, and takes a swig of beer while she nods.

"Wait, is that drink a belated admission?" Tony chirps up. "Because—" Nat clamps a hand over his mouth before he can say anything else.

"What is wrong with people?" Jane continues. "Guys have let you go down on them but not reciprocated? I'm telling Thor, he'll track them down and—"

"Janie, no—"

"Some people have no manners," Maria says. "You gotta demand what you want or they'll take advantage."

"Never have I ever," Steve loudly interrupts, "got caught with my hands down my pants."

Darcy throws him a grateful look for moving the discussion along. There are a few drinkers, including Bucky, who still appears to be staring in Darcy's direction. She tries her best to ignore his scrutiny, and quietly ducks out for a refill of beer. Only, instead of heading to the bar area, she slips back to her quarters.

That was enough humiliation for one night.

* * *

The next evening, she's fussing with her hair in the bathroom mirror, regretting the new conditioner which leaves her curls fluffier than she'd like. The fluff looks a hell of a lot like frizz, despite how soft it is, but it's too late to do anything now. She's meant to be meeting Bucky in the cinema room in ten minutes, to watch one of the movies from his list, and she doesn't know why she's bothering because Bucky is the last person to notice her hair.

That's a lie. She does know. She wants him to notice.

She's become Bucky's go-to companion for anything pop culture related—TV shows, music, movies and even food, with their recent forays out to try cuisines he's never had before—because she's more useful than Steve, and less impatient with him than most of the team. She's fine with filling the silence for the both of them when he's at his most monosyllabic. Steve joined them at the beginning, before dropping out more and more often, so it's been just the two of them for a while. And so far, Bucky hasn't noticed her spiraling crush.

She intends to keep it that way, though she knows tonight she'll struggle to control her mortification over him knowing more about her sexual history than she ever wanted him to know.

There's a knock at the door, interrupting her fidgeting. She frowns up at the ceiling. "Friday, who is that?" Darcy's never sure why she directs her interactions with the AI upwards, but it's a habit she struggles to break.

"Sergeant Barnes," the AI replies, and Darcy's frown deepens. They always meet at their destination, so him coming here can't be good news. He's probably canceling tonight—figured out from her blushes and coy glances last night that she likes him more than she should, or realized that he probably needs someone with a little more 'life experience' to guide her through the 21st century.

 _Or_ , her brain responds, _he's got to work and is polite enough to cancel in person._

"Alright, Friday, let him in."

She exits the bathroom just as Bucky strolls into her living room. He's dressed as casually as always, hair pulled back in a messy attempt at a ponytail, but the way he wears a t-shirt and a pair of jeans is enough to make most male models weep. The sleeve of the shirt cuts off mid-bicep, and it strains to cover even that much. She drags her gaze away from the curves of his arm to his face, which is as enigmatic as ever.

"Change of plans?" she asks, waiting for him to explain his presence. He's definitely not suited up for a mission.

"Something like that," he mutters. Then he crosses the room in two strides, caging her against the bathroom door with his arms, and the breath leaves her body in one swoop.

She stares up at him with wide eyes, wondering briefly if someone's managed to trigger the Soldier, but the storm in his eyes suggests otherwise. She's never been this close to him before, not even when they've sprawled out on the same sofa, and just wants to press herself even closer, to see if all the muscle feels like she always imagined it would.

Whatever he reads in her face in that split-second seems to persuade him to continue, because he bends his head and kisses her.

It's a hot kiss, in every sense, and because her mouth fell open when he crowded her, he takes advantage to immediately stroke his tongue against hers. She moans and balls her fists into the front of his t-shirt, momentarily forgetting that he isn't supposed to know she feels. Except he's kissing her so expertly, with a strong, slow rhythm, that she struggles to summon any resistance.

When he pulls away, she's left panting under his scrutiny.

"What was that?" she asks, her voice breathier than she'd like, when it seems he has no intention of breaking the silence.

"Showing you how good I am with my mouth."

She's pretty sure she whimpers, but he's kissing her again before she can ask further questions. Darcy never had any doubts that he'd be good with his mouth. She's spent too much time thinking about his pouty mouth and what he could do with it, but he didn't need to actually turn up and offer any proof.

His lips move from hers to her jawline, and somehow he manages to locate a weakspot she didn't know about, because she has to increase her grip on his chest to keep herself upright. His beard tickles and scrapes against the sensitive skin of her neck, and she definitely whimpers this time.

"Why d-do you need to…?" she tries to ask, as he works his way down her throat.

"Because I'm about to make up for all the men who left you high and dry."

It's a good thing he chooses that moment to sweep her off her feet—literally, swooping her up into a bridal carry—because her knees are no longer functional. Instead, he carries her across the room and to her sofa, where he sets her down and drops to his knees. With his height, though, it means his face is still level with hers.

This time when he kisses her, she digs her nails into the cushions, while he works his way between her legs, his hips spreading them until they're flush with her own. She knows what he intends, and she also knows that if she called a halt to this, he'd obey her, no question.

But she really, really doesn't want to do that.

Instead, when he tugs the neckline of her shirt down so he can get a mouthful of breast, she arches up to give him better access, letting her head fall back. His other hand is at her waist, snaking under the fabric of her shirt to curl around her hip. He sucks through the fabric of her bra, before pulling that away with his teeth, and she's aware of cool metal cupping the other side, thumb stroking over and mirroring what his tongue is doing. She's always found this part of foreplay a little perfunctory, more for the guy's benefit than her own, but for the first time ever Darcy's appreciating a man going to town on her chest.

It's only when he unzips her jeans and reaches his hand inside, fingers gently cupping her, that reality begins to set in. He's not just going to touch her—holy shit his thumb is right where she wants it to be—but he's going to put his face down there. He's going to look at her, completely exposed, and she is not prepared for this, at all. There are reasons she's never demanded this, has always been too reticent to broach the idea, and doesn't want him to feel obliged to do it just because no one else ever did.

She opens her eyes, braces to say something, but the words are stolen by the look on his face. He's all dark eyes, swollen lips, and there's even a flush on his cheeks. He looks as wrecked by this as she feels. So when he tugs the jeans over her hips, she forgets to protest, at least until he's settling between her legs again.

"You don't have to do that," she mutters, trying to keep her knees together. He doesn't try to push them apart, just looks at her with bemusement.

"I want to," he replies, and his voice has gone ridiculously low and gravelly. He licks his lips and she follows the movement with her eyes, convinced she may actually spontaneously combust.

"No, you don't. Men never actually want to—"

The look he shoots her shuts her up: a flash of anger—not anger at her, she thinks—and frustration. "Darcy, believe me when I say, I am looking forward to this."

She doesn't really have an answer for that, letting him spread her legs until they rest on his shoulders. She has to look away, too embarrassed to watch his reaction, even as the cool fingers of his metal hand spread her open to him. She can feel his breath on her skin, so close, but he doesn't do anything. Not yet.

"Look at me," he commands, and she screws her eyes shut instead. "Darcy," he warns, with more than hint of impatience, and a quick swipe of his tongue at the crease of her thigh. A threat: _there, that's all you're getting until you do as you're told._

She glances down, ready to look away again, and he rewards her by placing a gentle kiss on her clit.

It's not much, but it's also everything.

"I'm going to need you to tell me what feels good," he says, and she gives him a shaky nod in response. Her nails are digging into the cushions so hard she knows they are violent white, and could snap at any time. She holds her breath, waiting for whatever comes next, and his is hot against her.

He licks his lips once more, than dives in—full, wet mouth falling upon her wetter flesh, tasting her like he's a starving man. Now, she can't tear her gaze away from him, not from the flashes of tongue he graces her with, or the way his face glistens when he pulls away to nuzzle at her inner thigh. His beard scratches her, and she knows tomorrow she will bear the prickling marks, but for now it is a welcome contrast to the soft, pliant movement of his mouth.

He begins slow, experimenting, and while she struggles to actually find the words to tell him if something is merely nice as opposed to toe-curling, it must be easy to read in her little gasps and stuttering movements. He moans too as he works her over, and the whole thing sounds obscene, louder than she ever expected it to. Not the harsh smack of skin on skin that sex sometimes created, but greedy, wet noises. She should be mortified, but Bucky appears to be enjoying himself more than she thought possible.

So much that she hears the metallic slide of his zipper, and he briefly pulls away to lick the palm of his flesh hand, which disappears between his own thighs. She leans up on her elbows to get a glimpse of that hand curling around a very thick—thicker than she'd anticipated, in her illicit fantasies—cock, before his face blocks the view again.

Doesn't matter. It's seared in her mind's eye, and the visual helps her relax into efforts. He's definitely, _definitely_ enjoying himself, and it strips the veil of her self-consciousness away.

She melts into the sofa cushions, hips bucking up towards his mouth when he does something she likes, and if even she can't quite summon the ability to speak to him, she becomes more vocal in other ways. The wicked little grin he offers up to her suggests he knows that she's surrendered to him.

Now he's confident in what she likes best, he sticks to that, building up a rhythm that begins to crescendo—or maybe that's the heartbeat in her ears. He's relentless, and if she had control over her thoughts, maybe she'd be wondering about how he's breathing, or how he hasn't got cramp yet, but he's a supersoldier and he's not giving her space to think. She feels a scream building and she has never, ever screamed during sex, never understood why anyone would other than mimicking what they'd seen in porn, but now it's forming, not just in her throat but all the way down her body, like her voice is directly connected to where his mouth is latched to her body.

Her spine bows, her fingers scrabble for something more substantial to dig into than chenille, and sounds come out of her throat that she'd never known she was capable of: not a scream, not a cry, but a wordless entreaty, the embodiment of the heat and liquid pleasure washing over her.

She has to wrench his head away, digging fingers into his hair to gain get him to move, because it's become too, too much, and the smile he flashes this time is wolfish, his tongue running over bared teeth and shining chin. She expects that when he rocks back on his haunches, he will be ready for more, but instead his hand and forearm are coated in the evidence of his own orgasm.

"Oh," she murmurs, glancing at him with fresh uncertainty.

"I didn't come here for that." He stands, dips his head as if he's going to kiss her, but she shifts away and he doesn't push. Instead, he tucks himself back into his heans, padding across to her bathroom. "I'll meet you at the movie room in twenty minutes?"

"What?" she asks, brain still barely forming a thread between one thought and the next. She's sprawled on her sofa, naked from the waist down, and he still wants to go watch a film?

"Twenty minutes, time to clean up," he replies, emerging with washed hands and his face splashed clean too. "Stevie says Pearl Harbor is a travesty I have to witness myself."

"O-okay." Then he's gone, and she spends ten minutes wondering what the hell just happened.

* * *

Movie night is awkward, and it's all on Darcy's part. Bucky leaves her space to sit next to him, but she's not sure how close he wants her to be. She curls up, close but not touching, and if he was expecting more he doesn't mention it. She's too aware of his presence to concentrate on the film, and there's nothing she can think of to say that won't be awkward as hell. Bucky seems relaxed and doesn't push for conversation, but he'll always choose silence if given the option.

When the credits roll, he raises one eyebrow and shakes his head. "Stevie was right," is all he says, before rising and gracing her with a kiss on the forehead—one she doesn't have time to react to before he's gone.

It's a sleepless night.

He turns up in the labs at the end of her shift the next day, like he does so often. "Nepalese," he says when she throws a questioning look his way, and she tries to nod nonchalantly in response. Jane stares at her curiously when she almost knocks half the contents off her desk—she's been a klutz all day, but she can't bring herself to tell Jane what happened. Not in the middle of the labs, anyway, bright and sterile as they are—a confession like this deserves a softer atmosphere.

Instead, she follows Bucky to dinner. He does not take her hand, or offer her any more kisses, and in fact it's meal like any other. He expects her to lead the conversation, she knows he does, because she _always_ does, so she babbles about how Tony pissed Jane off this morning. In the end, it's beginning to feel like she imagined the night before. Only the raw scrapes on her thighs offer any proof that this was more than her own fevered imagination.

He's away on a mission the next day, so she has dinner with Jane and Helen, but she still can't form the words to explain what happened, and now it's beginning to feel like a secret.

When she returns to her rooms, there is a note on her vanity, the blue cursive not what you would expect from an assassin but probably should expect from a man taught to write in the 1930s. It's a list, one which begins with "Receive oral sex" crossed out. The rest, she realizes when she scans through the other items, are the things she said she had not done during the drinking game, including several things which make her cheeks burn. The list ends with a note.

 _If there's anything you don't want to do, knock it off the list._

She's got questions. Lots of them, starting with did he really catalog all of her responses during a round of "Never Have I Ever"? Some, she's not even sure she can piece together, like why? What are they—is he trying to morph their friendship into something more, or should she draw the line in the sand? How much of a bad idea is this and should she really be contemplating this?

It's a terrible idea, she knows it is, but when the list includes wall sex, the devil on one shoulder knocks the angel clean off the other. Sex with Bucky is going to be incredible, of that there's no question. She might as well experience it.

She edits the list, though she's not sure where she's meant to leave it. She definitely doesn't have the skills to return the favor and break into his quarters. Instead, she leaves it on the vanity, knowing that he'll find it when he's ready.

He must find it quickly, because when she returns to her quarters the next evening, the door is slammed shut, and his hands grip her hips from behind.

"No threesomes?" he says into her hair, where his face is buried, one hand underneath the hem of her shirt and spanning her belly. "Nat will be disappointed."

She giggles—his jokes are rare, and she makes a point to reward every one— then gasps when his fingers trail lower.

The devil on her shoulder is absolutely right. Sex with him makes Darcy realize why people are always raving about it, even if when it's over—reverse cowgirl scribbled off the list—he only spares her a few moments lazing together before he's cleaning himself up again and disappearing.

"Duty calls," he says, as if it explains everything.

It's a pattern, one that's quick to establish. They fuck, frequently, and it's everything Darcy ever wanted. He even kisses her, and not just as a precursor to more, but like he enjoys doing it: long minutes of exploring what makes her sigh and shiver. He doesn't stick to the list either, instead surprising her with extended sessions of vanilla-but-toe-curling sex in her bed, and plenty of time with his face between her thighs. Yet he doesn't sleep over, and outside of her quarters it's friendly meals and silent movie nights. She's a mess, bouncing between a puddle of hormones and a lovelorn sap, and everyone's noticed, but because Bucky's so unaffected they don't piece the two together.

Or maybe it's because the idea of the two of them together is so ridiculous. Even if Steve has started assuming that she will know where Bucky is at any given moment, and asks what "they're" getting as a gift for Maria's birthday. Darcy's stumped for a response, and Steve appears concerned by her silence.

When Pepper quietly suggests that Darcy get her birth control re-assessed, because she's twitchy and flushed and ready to cry at anything, something gives. Not during that conversation, when Darcy nods absently and promises to schedule an appointment, but later, when Bucky has her stripped down in the shower.

"What are we?" she murmurs as his fingers curl into her, and squeezes her eyes shut as soon as the words escape. This is the worst time, the very worst, because she was this close to another orgasm—possibly her final orgasm with him.

His fingers still in their movement, and she can feel his stare. It's no good avoiding it, so she peels her eyes open. Gently extricates his hand, turns off the water, grabs a towel, and retreats to the bedroom. It feels like surer territory than the shower, though given how much time he's spent in here lately, it's still not the surest.

He follows her, but foregos the towel; apparently he's comfortable being naked. She can't blame him, even if it feels like he's cheating. "Darcy?"

"What are we?" she asks again, to his confusion, and God, how much clearer could she be? "Fuck buddies, friends with benefits—I don't know what they called it back then—"

"You're my girl." He seems very, very sure of that. On the other hand, she's not sure what that's meant to mean at all.

"This thing we've been doing—well, maybe we should have talked it out first. Because it always ends up going wrong, one person ends up deeper than they should, and I should have told you from the beginning that I was way deeper than it obviously looked—"

"Darcy," he says to cut her off, stepping up close and wrapping his hands around her shoulders. "You're my girl. Not a fuck buddy." He spits the last two words out like shards of glass.

"Am I? Because we don't do anything together except have sex. We might actually be on a rung below fuck buddy."

Now he's incredulous, and she suspects he wants to shake her, but instead he plants himself firm and stares her in the eye. "We go to dinner every night we're both available. We watch movies together. I let you talk me into going bowling, I joined in with drinking games so you could babysit Jane. I have taken you on no less than two picnics. I thought it was pretty clear we're dating."

It's her turn to be incredulous. "We do all that stuff as friends! Outside of this room, you don't even touch me."

He lets out a harsh bark of laughter, and rests his forehead against hers. For some reason, his expression has gone all tender. "Fuck, Stevie's right, I am rusty at this. Forget people expect me to put stuff into words." One hand shifts, brushing strands of wet hair away from her face. "Darcy, I was trying to let you set the pace. Thought you wanted to keep it quiet so nobody stuck their noses in our business, and honest, I don't want anyone knowing enough to use you against me. In fact, I thought I was pushing for more than you wanted to give me, and that's why you were keeping your distance. But if you want to hold hands, cuddle up to me when we watch things, all that sappy stuff—at least in the facility—then I'm more than ready to."

"You won't even spend the night." She's aware this last accusation, delivered quietly, makes her sound like a petulant child, but it's the one which hurts the most. Because no one can see him here, so what does it matter?

"Sweetheart, I'm no good at night, not enough to trust myself around you. Not yet. But I'm working on it." He kisses her, soft and sweet. "And if you think you're in this deeper than I am, you've been paying less attention than it seems."

She gapes up at him—he may have said more words in the last few minutes than he's ever said before, and what words they are—and he keeps kissing her, barely-there brushes of his lips and tongue, until she's pliant in his arms. There's a lump in her throat, and she's dimly aware that of the gauzy haze of impending joy pressing in on her from all sides.

"You _are_ my girl, right?" he whispers into her ear, one set of fingers tip-toeing down her bare spine, and she nods, pressing herself up against him. She needs his weight to anchor herself.

"I'm your girl," she echoes, and she still doesn't believe it until she's said the words. But when she has, she has to catch her lower lip in her teeth to stop a smile wide enough to hurt her cheeks.

He's smiling too, not out of lust or grim humor. "Good. How about we continue this in the shower?" He smile turns teasing. "I think this whole mess proves you still need to learn to ask for what you want…"


	2. Chapter 2

**This wasn't meant to happen at all. But snippets of this wrote themselves, so I had to join them together and give them a proper home. I give you: Bucky's point of view.**

* * *

"Never have I ever…fucked somebody with a strap-on."

It takes Bucky a few moments to parse that one. It's not lingo he's used to, but luckily for him it's also straightforward enough to figure it out. Especially when Natasha takes a drink and eyeballs the rest of the group.

The 21st century just keeps on giving.

"Holy fuck," Clint whispers, and the game continues around Bucky, the annoying buzz of Stark Junior running his mouth background noise to Bucky's mental picture of Darcy with the thing. Strap-on? He's not sure if he's game for its intended purpose, but Fantasy Darcy looks incredible wearing it. Like a goddess, her pale skin lit by firelight, dark hair tumbling around her shoulders and offering him teasing glimpses of her naked chest. She's posed with one hip jutted, the contraption hiding her the juncture of her thighs from him, but her aura sparks with power and confidence.

This entire game is an exercise in torture. And Bucky has lived through more than his fair share of that.

He's only here because Darcy is, even though he knows she's as uncomfortable as he is. He watches her, wondering if she's thinking of him the same way. When he was picturing her with her lips wrapped around him, staring up between her lashes with a naughty glint in her eyes, did she have him flat on his back in her mind while she rode his mouth?

The only benefit to this stupid game, other than the delicate flush alcohol brings to Darcy's cheeks, is that it serves as a useful piece of recon. While the Darcy of his fantasies is bold about what she wants, in real life she is more reticent (though he hopes that's something she'll shed when she's really comfortable with him, when he's done everything he can to convince her that he wants to give her everything she craves, that he'll never be anything except in awe that she sees something in him). Tonight she is telling him things she would never put into words. Mostly that her past lovers have been disappointments.

But he never imagined, as he takes a reflexive drink at Jane's turn, they were _that_ disappointing.

Everyone is staring at Darcy, her silent proclamation that no man has ever done the decent thing deepening the blush on her face, and he is powerless to stop staring too. Torn from his reverie where his face is buried in the promised land, he hopes his indignation shows when she glances at him.

Does he imagine the hope that flashes across her features when her gaze meets his, or is it his fevered imagination? The way she is curled in on herself, trying to fend off the prying of their friends, suggests it's the latter, but it's already sparked an idea.

More than an idea. A resolution. A silent promise to his girl, and though he's tried not to push her, has kept things between them as sweet and unhurried as he can, this changes things. She deserves more than his unfettered libido, but she also deserves more than she's ever been given.

Only she slips away before he can act.

* * *

They've got a date tonight. Another casual date, one of a long line of dates where he does his best to coax smiles out of her and work up the nerve to kiss her.

Except, for some reason, the nerves are gone. He's spent weeks bottling out at the last second, and here he stands, tying his hair back so it's out of the way when he gets down to business, newly confident in his change of strategy.

Because this isn't about him. It's about her.

Doesn't mean his heart isn't thumping as the AI lets him into her quarters, where she's still primping in her bathroom. It's the first time he's seen them, and he distracts himself with taking in details of the room: bright rugs on the ground, knick-knacks everywhere, everything a little messy and lived in. Through a door, he spies her bed, and suddenly his mouth goes dry.

"Change of plans?" she asks from behind him, and he turns his head to where she is on the threshold of the bathroom. Her hair is a fluffy cloud around her shoulders, and he'd like to run his fingers through it. He always has the urge to run his fingers through it.

He has no idea what to say, struck dumb by how stupid an idea this is—what, turning up in the girl's space and planning to maul her because he's got the urge to wear her thighs as ear muffs?—until he notices the way her gaze flicks to his biceps, then away, like she's ashamed of looking.

He likes her looking. He wants her touching. But she's been so patient with him, waiting for him to be ready for more.

He's ready. But he needs to kiss her first.

"Something like that," he replies, crossing to her and eliminating the space between them. She's backed into the door, staring up at him with wide eyes, and this is the closest they've ever been to each other. Her body heat seeps into his, and with each breath her chest brushes against his. He bends his head, meeting her eyes to make sure she wants this.

There. Hope. It flickers through, timid but genuine, and he closes the last few inches to kiss her.

He's never kissed anyone like this, and distantly wonders if he should ease into it, but weeks of denying himself have rendered any chance of this being chaste impossible. She fills every sense, taste and scent and hearing at the broken little gasp she makes when he sucks her bottom lip. Her hands have him pulled tight against her, and it's taking everything he has not to rut into her like the dog he apparently is.

When he lets her go, his control fraying faster than he'd like, she stares up at him with mussed hair and a kiss-swollen mouth, and he's _this_ close to dropping to his knees and hitching her thighs over his shoulders.

"What was that?" she asks.

"Showing you how good I am with my mouth."

The noise she makes is a good sound, a holy sound, and he has to kiss her again, to continue his audition. She may yet turn him away, but he needs her to know what she'll be missing if she does.

There is skin to explore and taste, and promises to offer, words to calm her and make her yield. Words are not his best thing, not for many years, but between what he manages to string together and the other skills of his mouth, she eventually opens herself to him.

Real Darcy is more hesitant than Fantasy Darcy. She doesn't trust him yet, but only because she doesn't know she _can_ , and because nobody has ever taken the time to earn her trust this way. But the work is worth it, when he finally gets his fill of her. When she is sprawled above him, boneless and spent, and he can take pride in a job well done.

"I didn't come here for that." He tells her when he rises from between her legs, with a mouth full of salt and musk, ignoring her silent expectation of more. This is the important part, where he proves that he still intends to court her. Sadly, though, it involves leaving her rooms. It means he has to wash the evidence of their encounter from his skin. "I'll meet you at the movie room in twenty minutes?"

"What?" She sounds a little drunk, and his ego does a victory lap at the effect he's managed to have on her.

"Twenty minutes, time to clean up," he explains, and she is where he left her when he returns from the bathroom. If he doesn't get out of here quickly, he's going to struggle to keep up the chivalry. Her whole body is flushed, warm and soft all over, and he wants to know what it feels like wrapped around his. But not today. "Stevie says Pearl _Harbor_ is a travesty I have to witness myself."

"O-okay."

He does not flee. But he does leave faster than is dignified.

* * *

She keeps her distance from him when they watch the terrible film— _how did this thing get made?_ —close, but not touching. Only years of sniper training and instinct keep him still, keep his fingers from creeping around her hips and pulling her close. Not to get under clothes again, but to nuzzle in close and have the weight of her leaning against him. Maybe he'd try for a little necking (he doubts that particular film-watching past-time has fallen out of favor) but she holds herself away from him. Stiff, and fidgety.

He does not push. They are in a room where anyone could walk in, and Darcy's private. He knows that from the drinking game, and from all the hours he has spent in her presence. And the team they are part of would be merciless, relentless. If she wants her space in public, he won't complain.

Her company is more than enough. He'd rather watch the way the colors and shadows play across her face anyway.

It's something he bears in mind over dinner the next day, and gradually she unwinds in his presence again, relaxing until her tongue and thoughts run free.

It's only when he's away from her that the urge to touch becomes unbearable, turned inward so he molests himself in the shower the way the nuns used to threaten would make him go blind. There, an endless tumble of fantasies play out behind his eyelids, leading to his next ridiculous idea.

He knows it's unconventional. He knows their first time together should be something a little more traditional: face-to-face, while he rocks above her, maybe, watching how every movement plays out on her face—and oh God, does he want to do that. But he can't get the list of things she didn't drink to out of his head.

So he writes the list down.

And every dirty fantasy he's had since begs him to at least see if she's willing to experience some of the things he's scrawled onto the paper.

So he gives her the list.

For once, the villains of the world save his skin, giving him an excuse to leave it in her quarters without having to face her while she reads it. He mulls over it for the entire mission, running down the list while wondering what she'll cross out, what she'll leave. If she doesn't throw it back in his face when he returns, offended by his presumptions and failure to romance her adequately.

When they're back at the facility, he asks Friday to confirm the list is still in her rooms, and gets the AI to read it back to him. She confirms the list has been edited.

Then he has to see it for himself.

The corners are a little ruffled, like she's held it a long time, and she hasn't just struck through some of the things. There are little scribbles added: a smiley face here and there, an exclamation mark and an "EWWW!" He laughs, picturing the way her nose must have wrinkled when she wrote this, and commits the amended list to memory.

Now he can't leave, not until his fingers have graced Darcy's skin again.

She's home before long, and he waits until the door is closed behind her before he gathers her close, pulling her up against him while he nuzzles into her hair. It's soft, and floral, and the antidote to a lifetime of gunpowder and blood.

"No threesomes? Nat will be disappointed."

Darcy giggles, the sound traveling through him and lighting him up in ways he could never explain. The idea that he still has the power to make someone laugh is intoxicating. But his hands have a mind of their own, eager to feel more of her skin.

He can't kiss her from this angle, but he can touch her, filling one hand with a breast and slipping the other beneath her clothes, between her thighs. It's faster moving than he intended, but she inches her legs further apart and leans into him. He takes her weight gratefully, exploring her sightlessly with his fingers. She isn't ready for him, not at first, but he listens to her breathing—the way it hitches and swoops at certain movements—and soon his fingers are coated.

"Got any preferences?" he asks, trying to coax more candor from her, but all she offers is a slight shake of her head. Her head has lolled to rest against his shoulder, and now he's got a great view of the way her teeth are sunk into her bottom lip.

He's got the list in his mind's eye, and there are only really a few options suitable for the evening. It's hard to choose, especially without her input, but he decides to let things lead where they will.

Becoming envious of her teeth, he turns her in his arms so he can tug at her bottom lip himself. He has to pull his hands free, but it leaves him able to pull her flush against him, claiming her for another hot, needy kiss.

He owes her so many soft, slow kisses, but they are for another time.

Now, he walks her back towards the bedroom door, relying on instinct to keep them from tripping. When they are over the threshold, he spares himself a moment to glance around. It's too neat in here—she's tidied, expecting his presence, and it's not right at all. He wants all of her, messy corners included.

She's latched onto his jaw, sucking and scraping lightly with her teeth, and he grinds into her. For the first time, one of her hands has reached up to circle his upper arm, and the other has found its way under his t-shirt, splayed across his belly. He is breathing in short, sharp pants. No one has laid hands on him like this for decades, and here she is, desiring him but hesitant.

He covers the hand under the shirt with his own, dragging it upwards, so she knows he wants more. Needs more. Needs her skin to wipe every bruise and blow from the memory of his own.

She seems to get it, exploring the ridges of his abdomen for a moment before pulling away, tugging at the hemline of his shirt before he yanks the damn thing off. Then she drinks him in, eyes devouring and mouth following. When she reaches the puckered skin at his shoulder, she is gentler, her gaze offering him a flash of sorrow before she reclaims his mouth.

There's a flurry of movement, a mutual, awkward undressing before she's naked in front of him. Fully naked this time, and he resists the instinct to turn into a grabby teenage boy. He's forgotten that he's naked too, though, and she apparently feels no such restraint. Her fingers are curled around him, stroking, before he has the chance to brace himself.

" _Fuck!_ "

She laughs and keeps up the movement. He narrows his eyes in response, and in one smooth motion has her on all fours on the bed.

He'd say something about turning the tables, but his mouth's a little busy.

Only when she's fallen apart, back arching while she whispers his name, does he get up from his knees. This time, he's still ready for her, but it's a close thing. He's glad for the latex, when he retrieves it from his pants' pocket in the tangle of fallen clothes, and that's not a thought he ever thought he'd have. But this way, he'll be a little less sensitive, and hopefully a little less quick to fall apart.

Darcy is kneeling on the bed, watching as he rolls it on and chewing on her lip again. "Reverse cowgirl?" she suggests.

He had to look that one up on the internet, though it's obvious when you think about it. It's also not his top choice out of the options, but she's asked for it, so he'll go with it. So he nods, lowers himself onto the bed and shuffles back until he hits the headboard. Then, with an arm around her waist, he helps her into position.

He was wrong about the latex. It's no help at all. Not when he's got Darcy leaning back into his chest, her thighs pressing against his own, and she's wrapped tight around his cock. It's an overload of sensation, and he ruts up into her, making her squeal and push down against him.

There are a few frantic moments of fighting for a rhythm, until they've got one going which suits them both. He's got a handful of breast again, and the other buried between her thighs, hoping to hurry her along before he embarrasses himself. He's swept her hair away from one shoulder so he can nuzzle in, because his mouth has to be doing something, and strokes her with urgency.

He's about to start a litany of old Dodgers stats in his head, when she falters, fluttering around him and keening. It's enough: he gives into the heat at the base of his spine, surging upwards and letting go.

There's plenty to be said about having an armful of pliant, blissed-out Darcy, especially in his own euphoric state. She's snuggly, curling into him when body parts have been extricated, and he can't resist the urge to run his fingers lightly down her arm, across her belly. He could lie like this for hours, bringing that lazy smile to her face, and it's got nothing to do with sex.

At least he's earned himself a place in her bed now, one he returns to as often as she'll have him. There's the list, but there are also nights he has to deviate, has to gather her against him in ways its constraints won't allow.

Taking her to bed is one thing. Leaving her bed is another. He wants to be able to spoon up behind her, or gather her to his chest while they drift off in post-orgasmic chill. But it always has to end, and even her imploring eyes can't keep him by her side. Not when giving into them could end with her being injured.

He is not the same man at night. When sleep claims him, he becomes a wraith, lost to the horrors of his past.

He does his best to make up for abandoning her with long kisses and more time with her during the day. He'd try flowers, too, if her allergies didn't make them a poor choice of gift.

When he catches sight of her around the facility, she looks as wrecked as he feels. The more he has, the more he wants, and it's made worse by their distance outside the bedroom. (Well, apart from when he took her on the helicopter landing pad, ticking outdoor sex off the list). The urge to touch her—to stake a claim in front of everyone they know—is all-consuming, and while he thinks he's keeping it together in public, Stevie's comments after he destroys one punch-bag after another suggests otherwise.

"Darcy?" he asks, and Bucky ignores him to settle another bag on the hook. "You two have got a strange thing going on," he continues.

"We're dating," Bucky corrects Steve. "Not that strange. Unless you've never done it, then I understand it can appear confusing."

Steve ignores the verbal jab. "Do you talk much?"

Bucky shrugs. "I let her do most of it. Don't have anything interesting to say."

Steve gives a noncommittal hum, and it means he has more to say but isn't willing to do it.

"Spit it out, punk."

"You could tell her how you feel."

"She knows how I feel."

"About being with her openly?" He sighs when Bucky ignores him to thump the bag until sand seeps out of the seams. "She's a perceptive girl, Buck, but she can't read minds. If she knows that you want that, she might surprise you. She may be making decisions on what she thinks _you_ want."

Bucky doesn't remember asking for his opinion.

* * *

They've already achieved shower sex—twice—but there's nothing in the rules to say they can't keep doing something they've tried. Bucky has Darcy backed into the tiles, his mouth edging down her neck towards her breasts, and his hand beginning to coax what he hopes is the first of several orgasms out of her. She's so pretty when she comes, mouth slack as her back arches, and he's aiming to watch it several times over. Her enthusiastic moans suggest she's okay with that plan, too.

So he's not expecting her question.

"What are we?"

He glances up, expecting her expression to enlighten him, but her eyes are shut tight. Like a puppy waiting to be kicked, and he has no idea why. The question makes no sense, either.

While he's trying to make sense of it, she flees the bathroom, and he has to follow her out into the bedroom where she's hiding her skin from him. It's a symbol, of her backing away and closing down around him. He just doesn't understand why she's doing it.

"Darcy?" he asks, at a loss.

"What are we?" she repeats, before letting loose a string of phrases that don't belong in her mouth, because they don't describe them. "Fuck buddies, friends with benefits—I don't know what they called it back then—"

"You're my girl." How can she not know that? They've been dating for months.

"This thing we've been doing—well, maybe we should have talked it out first. Because it always ends up going wrong, one person ends up deeper than they should, and I should have told you from the beginning that I was way deeper than it obviously looked—"

"Darcy," he cuts in, moving closer, the urge to touch her skin as much a comfort for him as he hopes it is for her. "You're my girl. Not a fuck buddy." He hates saying the words, and there's a dawning sense that maybe Stevie was right after all. Maybe he's assumed too much.

"Am I? Because we don't do anything together except have sex. We might actually be on a rung below fuck buddy."

All he can do is stare at her for a second. He is halfway to completely gone for this girl, already wondering what kind of ring she'd like—if she'd wear it—and here she is thinking she's a convenience.

He fucked up. Badly.

"We go to dinner every night we're both available," he begins, trying to put together a different kind of list, a list of all the ways he's enjoyed her company fully clothed. "We watch movies together. I let you talk me into going bowling, I joined in with drinking games so you could babysit Jane. I have taken you on no less than _two_ picnics." Was the world so backwards that men did that for women they didn't care about? He couldn't bring himself to believe it. "I thought it was pretty clear we're dating."

"We do all that stuff as friends! Outside of this room, you don't even touch me."

He laughs, only there's no humor to it, but the wounded expression in her eyes soothes his hot frustration. He leans in close, thinking of all the ways he could have showered her in affection if only he'd not been such a dunce. "Fuck, Stevie's right, I am rusty at this. Forget people expect me to put stuff into words." He brushes hair away from her cheek, so he can see all of her face, those big eyes staring at him unblinking. "Darcy, I was trying to let you set the pace. Thought you wanted to keep it quiet so nobody stuck their noses in our business, and honest, I don't want anyone knowing enough to use you against me. But if you want to hold hands, cuddle up to me when we watch things, all that sappy stuff—at least in the facility—then I'm more than ready to."

"You won't even spend the night."

She sounds so hurt, and the memory of this is going to make it even harder to drag himself from her arms even though he knows he must. "Sweetheart, I'm no good at night, not enough to trust myself around you. Not yet. But I'm working on it." He gives in to the lure of her little pout for a moment, before continuing. "And if you think you're in this deeper than I am, you've been paying less attention than it seems."

The pout's still there, and he's powerless to resist its call. He won't be happy until he's kissed it away, so he does his best to do that, nipping and licking until he can feel the tension leaching out of her.

"You _are_ my girl, right?" He can't keep his fingers off her, but it seems she feels the same, leaning into his touch.

"I'm your girl," she confirms, biting her lower lip, and his body is fighting two conflicting reactions: reigniting lust, and soaring happiness. It's been a whirlwind five minutes, and he's glad they've put the confusion to rest, but he knows she still has her doubts and insecurities. She will continue to put his needs first, before ever voicing her own, and that's not okay. He needs to know what's going on in her head. He needs her to know that what she wants matters to him.

There are ways of teaching her that.

"Good. How about we continue this in the shower? I think this whole mess proves you still need to learn to ask for what you want…"


End file.
